


Might

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dominance, Ficlet, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 22:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10886079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil wants to make Maedhros kneel.





	Might

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katnor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katnor/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for katnorax’s “28. “Make me” Maedhros/Thranduil” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

In his youth, Maedhros might’ve paused before the grand oak doors, might’ve taken in a steadying breath and tried not to meet the eyes of the guards. But his youth is centuries passed, and he’s faced far more frightening things than the king of the Woodland Realm. He stands tall as the guards open the doors for him, and then he sweeps into the private bedchambers. He came as soon as he was summoned. They close behind him, ending the light of the hall, and instead trap him in the large, circular room, lit here and there with candles strung about the walls.

King Thranduil himself stands by the bed, a glass of wine in his hands. His back is to Maedhros, but he turns when he hears the entrance, and he finishes his sip. With a languid sweep up the long line of Maedhros’ body, he pointedly turns away, indulging in the rest of the glass’ contents. Then he sets it down, empty, on the dresser, and turns to stroll for where Maedhros stands.

He stops perhaps an arm’s length away. He looks as grand as he did in his throne room, where Maedhros was first greeted. He still wears his crown, his long, silver robes, and his many rings of diamonds. His white-gold hair cascades smoothly down his shoulders, his face perfectly framed. He stands nearly as tall as Maedhros—closer than any other Maedhros has met. Eye to eye, Thranduil drawls, “I trust you are enjoying your stay, son of Fëanor.”

“I am,” Maedhros returns evenly, and it isn’t _quite_ a lie—there are pleasures to be had here. But his life was drained of true delight many years ago, and it takes much now to move him. Thranduil seems to wait for more, but Maedhros has nothing to say. It occurs to him belatedly that he’s addressed a king without title. But it’s gone too long to correct.

Perhaps at that, Thranduil’s lip twitches. He doesn’t _quite_ sneer, but he does command, “Kneel.” Maedhros can’t help being mildly impressed—Thranduil has _presence_. He might have done well in the lands of old.

But then, he would likely not be a king, certainly no higher than Maedhros. Though little is left of his father’s line, he still considers himself a prince, and something in Thranduil’s rough tone tells him that kneeling would involve far too much submission. And Maedhros hasn’t _truly_ submitted to anyone since kneeling for Fingolfin, who Thranduil could never touch.

So Maedhros doesn’t kneel, but stands stern where he is. Thranduil’s blue eyes narrow, and he steps closer to demand, “ _Kneel_.”

With a light frown, Maedhros acts before he’s thought, as he so often has, and mutters, “Make me.”

Thranduil’s eyes light with fire. He takes the final step closer, so no room remains between them. Maedhros half expects a fight, and Thranduil hisses low, “You have done nothing but defied my rule since you came here.” Maedhros lifts a brow at that, as he’s done nothing of the sort, though he’s known from the start that Thranduil, for whatever reason, has seen him as a threat. “You speak to my council behind my back of the friendship of dwarves, you usurp the captain of my guard for your own idle hunt, and you make eyes at my son and heir.” The last is the most outrageous claim, though Prince Legolas is indeed almost as beautiful as his father. It doesn’t change the fact that to Maedhros, he’s a mere child. And an innocent, unspoiled one at that. He doesn’t even have the hidden battle scars that his father does. Thranduil’s eyes are well healed, and they bore into Maedhros as Thranduil utterly shatters his personal space. Thranduil grits out through clenched teeth, “Kneel for me _now_.”

The intensity is palpable. Maedhros simply stares back, until something strange occurs to him, and he catches on to just where Thranduil’s flame is coming from. He plays over the last accusation in his mind, then parts his lips deliberately, and watches Thranduil’s gaze dart to the movement. Thranduil’s lashes lower slightly for it, and his pupils are already dilated. His breath is quick. A thin smile forms along Maedhros’ mouth; he thinks he understands. 

He whispers idly, “You do not want me to acknowledge your reign, I think, but to be on my knees for you for another reason entirely.” When Thranduil doesn’t deny it in the first few seconds, Maedhros tilts forward, noting how Thranduil arches into him rather than away, and purrs into Thranduil’s ear, “You want me to swallow you whole, and you want to lick me right out afterwards.” 

Thranduil turns his head away and all but snarls. He says nothing to deny the claims, though his surprise is clear. Maedhros’ smile grows.

Maedhros dares to put his hand on Thranduil’s broad shoulder, steadying it and chuckling, “Is that too crude for you? And here I had thought you were a soldier once. Perhaps you are not as worldly as I thought.” He lowers his voice to add, sultry and newly pleased, “But you are beautiful, and I am tempted. I have always enjoyed being taken by kings.” A subtle shiver runs through Thranduil’s body, and Maedhros leans closer, letting his lips graze the skin of Thranduil’s lobe, where he purrs, “In fact... I think I might just let you fuck me.”

Thranduil lurches to action, hand darting up to fist in Maedhros’ hair. Maedhros grunts at the sting but allows it—he could’ve stopped Thranduil if he wanted. Instead, he lets Thranduil tug fiercely at it, trying to force Maedhros to kneel. Maedhros doesn’t even bend, but hisses, “I have had my hair pulled by creatures that could snap you in two.” Fury crosses Thranduil’s face. He doesn’t relinquish his grip. 

He continues straining for a moment, until it must become clear that Maedhros will suffer all his long copper hair ripped away again, if he has to. He doesn’t bow for force. Then Thranduil switches tactics all at once and jerks Maedhros in another direction—forward—and Maedhros slams right into him, ready for it. 

The first kiss is a fierce, demanding thing, with Thranduil’s tongue shoving into Maedhros’ mouth in a heartbeat. For all his talk, he knows that the woodland elves are _wild_ , more so than the elegance he grew up with, however far he’s fallen since. Thranduil doesn’t disappoint. He kisses with brutal intensity, claiming Maedhros’ mouth and grinding them together. His grip on Maedhros’ hair burns, but Maedhros makes no effort to free himself. He wants to return the favour too much, and he lifts his hand to thread in Thranduil’s silken locks. He can’t help marveling at how soft they are, though he expected as much; Thranduil looks like a living gem. He would’ve done well in Valinor. His hair is reminiscent of Finrod’s, his colour straight from the Trees.

He pushes Maedhros with insistence, and Maedhros lets himself be moved back. They don’t part once, instead opening and closing around one another, and Thranduil seamlessly guides them to the mattress. The back of Maedhros’ knees hit the frame, and Thranduil shoves him hard. Maedhros lets himself fall. He bounces once off the covers, thick and plush, and crawls back to lay his head in the pillows. Thranduil crawls right over him, stalking like an animal. If Maedhros had known how easily this king went to bed, he would’ve come here on his first night in the realm. 

Thranduil moves like making up for lost time. He pushes Maedhros’ legs wide around him as he moves, bending them back and rolling up the crimson robes. Maedhros wears no tights underneath; he didn’t think he had to. His slippers are already falling off his toes. Thranduil yanks at the buttons down his front, tearing them open, until it’s all too easy to push the elaborate fabric aside. The robes are lovely and were a present from Prince Legolas, one Maedhros wore to honour the realm he stayed in. Apparently, they weren’t enough. 

Thranduil eyes each patch of skin he reveals, now sitting up to appreciate it fully, and Maedhros gets a strange thrill out of the lust in Thranduil’s eyes. Many of his scars have faded or healed, but many others never will, and they don’t seem to deter Thranduil in the slightest. He runs his large hands along Maedhros’ inner thighs, dipping down into the grove between, where Maedhros’ entrance is moist and quivering. It’s rare for him to react that way—at least, in this Age, after all he’s suffered and done—but Thranduil is an incredibly handsome man, and his intensity is difficult to resist. Maedhros always did enjoy other powerful men.

As Thranduil’s thumbs come to draw around Maedhros’ outer lips, he muses through a smirk, “You are wet for me.”

Maedhros arches one brow, and without even having to look at the tent in Thranduil’s robes, he returns, “You are hard for me.”

Thranduil snorts, “Brat,” and pats Maedhros’ hip as though wanting to spank him. “You are even more insolent than Legolas.”

If anything, the fact that Thranduil is so involved with his son as to bring him up even now only sparks Maedhros’ interest—it reminds him of his own father, who never had his sons far from his mind. They would’ve gotten along well, perhaps, if Fëanor hadn’t beheaded Thranduil for trying to dominate his eldest. Long past his father’s protection, Maedhros returns the game, cooing, “How interesting to know... for he is, after all, every bit as beautiful as his father.”

Thranduil’s expression darkens immediately, and he growls low, “Do not _dare_.” 

His look almost makes Maedhros want to try it just for sport. But he has rules, and he chuckles, “Do not worry; I do not play with children that young. ...Though you are still quite fresh for my tastes. You are lucky you spent your youth on mortal shores, and you look now almost older than me, if better preserved and of a softer art.”

Far from taking the reassurance, Thranduil hisses, “Silence,” and dives down to fill him with tongue again. Maedhros arches happily into it, kissing back. He can hear and feel Thranduil’s robes rustling, and he knows he’s robbed himself of a gentle entrance; he fully expects to be taken roughly. He hardly minds. In some ways, a brutal fuck is easier for him to feel, and he only spreads his legs wider when he feels the head of Thranduil’s cock rub down his entrance. His knees lift to cling to Thranduil’s sides, ready to clutch on, his one good hand returning to Thranduil’s hair. If he still had his other, he would lift the crown and toss it to the nightstand. 

Without another word, Thranduil shoves at him, hitting the right spot on the first try, and Maedhros strains to open, letting Thranduil’s girth sink down into his body. It’s wider than he expected, and he can tell from the start how long it will be. He moans for it, whining into Thranduil’s mouth, though Thranduil doesn’t stop or part them, merely continues to fuck him with both tongue and cock, pressing deeper on both ends. There’s no protection, but Thranduil likely didn’t know what he would find, and Maedhros knows the proper herbs to keep them safe. He welcomes the raw slide of this king, and finds it _almost_ exquisite enough to surrender a title. 

It doesn’t seem to matter. Thranduil won’t release his mouth anyway. Thranduil seems intent on choking him, but Maedhros greedily devours the kisses. He takes Thranduil as deep as he can, and Thranduil pushes forward, not halting even when he meets the most resistance, merely rocking inside, and Maedhros flutters and tries to open for him. It’s been a long time since Maedhros had anyone this well endowed, but he remembers. He savours the burn of it, each little pull and the way the lines of Thranduil’s veins rub at his inner walls. He flexes around it, and when Thranduil’s finally full-seated, he clenches. 

Thranduil grunts against him, hands digging tight into his sides. Maedhros half hopes they leave bruises—he wants ones with _good_ memories. He wept the day the marks of his late lover’s last bite finally faded. But he tries not to think about that now, and instead pushes to lose himself in the sensation. Thranduil grinds into him hard enough for it.

Thranduil withdraws none too gently, only to slam back inside, and Maedhros cries out as he’s filled. Thranduil repeats the action like a whip, working into a relentless rhythm with merciless force. The bed creaks and groans with the abuse, but Maedhros welcomes it. He drinks in the heavy slapping noises, the stench of raw _sex_ , and lives for the way Thranduil’s teeth drag across his lips. Thranduil seems to want to steal his breath away, and Maedhros luxuriates in it. The harsher Thranduil treats him, the wetter he gets. He’s already so _close_.

Thranduil is a monstrous lover. Maedhros thinks he isn’t always so, but Maedhros has goaded him to it, and the fury is well worth it. When Thranduil finally wrenches away from his mouth, it’s only to bite hard into his jaw. Maedhros cries out anew. Thranduil mouths right down to his throat, then grabs at his robes and bites into his shoulder, just short of drawing blood. Maedhros bucks into it. His hips are jerking beyond his control into Thranduil’s body. He _loves_ the stretch of Thranduil’s cock. For that long while, he lets Thranduil _own_ him.

And then his own pleasure boils in his stomach, and Maedhros screams his release. His orgasm crashes through him, numbing his limbs and heating his skin past searing. He loses sense of all else, drowning in it, until the last spark of tension has pooled out between his legs, and he’s sinking back into the mattress, panting hard. 

Thranduil still pounds into him. He takes it, grunting but not stopping it, until Thranduil is filling him with seed. Maedhros takes it gratefully. It’s been a long time since a lover finished him first. With most, he doesn’t finish at all, not anymore. Thranduil seems to know how to use him. 

Thranduil pushes up on his arms when he’s finished, towering above Maedhros and staring down through clouded eyes. His gaze roams Maedhros’ sweat-slicked body, only partially concealed in robes, and a languid grin stretches across his mouth. Even in his conceit, he’s absurdly attractive. 

He pulls out of Maedhros with a wet popping noise and slips easily off the bed. As he fastens his robes again, he drawls without looking, “You may leave now; I am done with you.”

Maedhros snorts. He starts pushing the covers down, then crawls beneath them, tucking himself tiredly into the royal bed. He rolls on his side when he’s finished, facing away, not out of any slight but because that’s simply what feels the most comfortable.

Thranduil repeats, “Brat,” and wanders off, likely in search of more wine.


End file.
